resist

Behind the fortune waiting in the dark
the pulsing choice to enter such as I
with bold intentions crushing in how stark
a pulmonary lapse brings fear to die

Regretting as we do our future held
for words cannot retain the feel of heart
with time and apathy all things do meld
the end is not all separate from the start

A shrieking comes from deep within these walls
a sound not heard but all to often felt
with crashing as the pretense casually falls
just as the press of truth begins to melt

Fortuitous and fleeting on the landing
embark upon the settling of new shores
to find us close eyed, bend and always standing
scarring where we fell to biting lures

In the dimming of the daily lighting
feckless as we are resisting change
only when the movement comes to fighting
only when we tighten on our range

blur between

Can I expect to be noticed if I don't try?

Is any to me due for what I never mind?

Should resentment fall to those who near me dwell?

No idea of who behind these eye can hide.

The scream to them to see beneath.
The sound but silent yawning sheath.
Promote themselves to the ideals of
strangers round them no appeals create.

Drowning out the sound they claim to love.

I force myself within the open glove.

Assuming that above what all will want the wanton fairing taste of failing love.
 

Believing that the current being powerful and old

is not the life for me excepting something all promote.

Perhaps the rest, the species has, no similar the thought of how things go?
Solid is the fainting in the dimming light behind my tale of woe.
Yet glinting in the recessed brickwork of the ne'er built home
my loins begin the steps of this deceitful bloody show.

Before the wanting falls upon a subject worth it's wait,
we pass across the culprit of the hope that here is laid
and not the sound he makes that turns his heart upon the stand
but as a stone I pass this hardship pealing seconds as a man.
 

Singularity

Oh, the things that I have uttered
in the darkness of my mind
in hopes that dissipation they will find
the solace offers of little comfort save elation over prying
clutching in the darkness for a handle on my moments
words with little more than meaning tumble forth
the spill of hope and hatred bore to wilting ire
deep beneath the squinting of mistrust
and what we hope to mean "alone"

Count on it

Are we responsible for our own ignorance?

In the glaring revelation of one's own shortcomings

the temptation to forget and continue as things were

is great.

The blame must be rested on a person such as that.

But learning of a weakness,

resting one's focus upon it,

and doing what must needs be done to address it

is the only action a responsible sentient being can take.

So,

Here am I.

The truth of missteps pouring in my eyes.

For over thirty years I've been exhausting

actions that have failed their grand intention.

As if to render constant perturbation I am met

with the daily dissertation from these esoteric silhouettes.

Oh the trivial, the petty things

these beings that surround

they pretend to be my species

but the dawning realization has astounded me.

I pretended that we were similar.

I pretend to stand on common ground.

I create in the place of those before me, an image of a driver behind those eyes.

A creature with dreams and hopes and wishes not very unlike mine.

Now growing, as the daylight, this awareness of that lie.

As it does, the truth creeps upon my resting state.

Slowly making it's presence known from the shadows

until, unassuming, unannounced,

It takes hold of me complete.

The simple fact now exists as if it were always part of me.

About my form the water turned to boil.

These bodies float up in my vision, roiling.

As the light beneath this microscope is suddenly switched "ON"

I now see myriad differences between us clearly shone.

Because I see that choice of waking life belonging to them

is the only path by which I can maintain my sanity,

I can no longer afford the mental effort and anguish

of expecting the actions of foreign bodies to make sense to me.

Waiting for the substance that surrounds me to mature

surely pushes boundaries through the depths of futility.

The things that do not matter will filter to obscurity.

Leaving only in it's wake:

The pure defining love of truth inherent in reality

the value of things beyond our pleasures temporarily

these distractions which, to prey, all falling they.

 

My first assessment:

 The human race were victims

and these temptations were set upon them by some malicious consciousness

seeking to keep all sentience in the dark

while completing it's malicious deeds  

beyond the short term, distracted mind.

 

My current assessment:

as near as days away it dawned upon me

No intelligence behind this curtain dwells

They have built this prison only for themselves.

The pain of bearing life to much to carry.

The weight of truth became to much to bare.

Demeaning to the importance 'self' invented.

Inflicted ease of constant distraction begets a greater comfort. 

the fact about it is

the truth only begins

to shed light unto all things

 stolen comfort on this clings.

 

For a time I tried to fight

to wake them up
assault some semblance of freedom

but the slave that has broken themselves

and accepted the fate of their servitude
will never be free

and will, in most cases I have seen,
 rebel against the chance of freedom for the comfort of the know.

Even if what they count on is servitude.

Even if what they count upon is a hatred of the mundane.

Even if they count on the routine that is killing them.

The comfort of a slow death that they see coming is,
to the willing slave,
better than the uncertain world born seeking freedom of the real.

Yesterday's tomorrow

Where has that world gone?

If it were not would we even notice it's presence?

Or, like so many, would it be as things understood?

Taken for granted and trained to see past.

The background blurs as we create the illusion of movement.

Getting the taste of how we aught to control this growth.

It's not the slope that is slippery

but our desire to loose traction

when engulfed by what interests us.

A misguided morbid curiosity complete.

It drives more work and striving

than the best intended "Get Well Quick" scheme.

The edges become nothing more than the amalgamation of things once revered,

now cast aside for the light at the end of this infinite tunnel of life.

The better action

It is roughly 1,426 casual steps to that place
and I make no reservations about my intention to get there again.
Without it I would be reduced to nothing,
cut down to meaninglessness,
refined to the truth of what makes us: me.
There is a thing that,
however honest and revelatory,
is not something I am prepared to see.
Truth be, I would weigh against the world to hide from sapient eyes.
I can only fight so much though
and what a fight it is.
Not even the shadow of a "good fight"
but still,
I demand that my complexity be irreducible.
I refuse to embrace the harmful truth as it opposes my world view.
By refinement,
the view I built of my self,
the view that kept me warm when I had hands to small to heat me,
when the world was a new thing stretching out before me.
It was the fact that I developed about my self that gave the world a reason to be understood.
How could one so small as I not cower in fear and inaction
in absence of the elevated view of myself?
Without this purpose I derive from obscurity
I would be still there
in that room
still hugging myself for lack of better actions.

The Way

The lining is out of sight.
We assume it is the stuff of silver
but at present we have only the hopes of success.
We demand the best from the future and lay no present plans to build it.
Eyes cast about to whom would do the good deed.
Who will spread this good word of tomorrow's promise held?
While the gavel falls slower than the guillotine.
What cares have we
This timing begins to slow and we see our future shot.
The things that our kind deserve will not appear
till years have passed and the now living fail to remain.
So what is our motivation?
To what care should we devote?
As the ship we see off will not return to our blank eyes
and starring into the abyss of our future,
into the bleak of day break,
we make men of mockeries.
The sham grows legs to walk
and forms sounds to talk
and this sham,
with disappointed arms,
waiving what the future deserves.
Before the choice to experience we stand exposed,
it's fruits: a concept understood.
Alone beside decided sickness
somewhere along the line we say
that the future generation will be raised like they are the past.
In doing so we handicap the potential of entire nations
and in our ignorance we retard our growth.
Shame be unto all who fail our future by the burying of progress.

Ambrosia

Rows and rows upon rows
of self proclaimed righteous counter clothes
beyond the bellows endless blowing.
Nothing known will ever interrupt a sacred show.
The line, uninterrupted as flies the crow.
Far before we chose what falls bellow
and what has been allowed to rise.
What has become of the true tough few?
What has been spent?
And for the egg shells we have strewn,
I fail to see the aforementioned omelet.

BPM

Time
Emboldened before this precipice.
It seems to strike some deal with this
and yet I'm left and wanting.

More of what I once had held
and less of what was rushing toward me
fore I had the thought to bar the door
it was upon me.

No amount of shaking found me there prepared.
It never learnt beforehand
and the crashing of the understanding fell upon the viewer's wanting shore.

I still can feel the swell.
Felt in the branch of toes
where no rock or dale can split these best intentions.

Aware
Upon these silent shores I assure the masses.
Within the words come forth a meaning
something raised in one and bore upon the limbs of a different bark.

For here,
within the hearing,
I will find you,
and you, in me, all things revealed.
It is not as the way it is foretold
but such things are more for the passage of you.
More by far than the explanation of where we will land together.

The falling never stops
and to your credit it didn't start either.
At least,
that is what I have been led to believe about you.
As if your elusive properties are something within the grasp of the sapiens.

I fear that.
Even as the whole attempts to embrace you.
After the struggle we will surely be sorely left on the side of woe
when, to late, we finally learn
where it is you long to go.

my bond

Getting golden geysers
often opens olde offenses.
Other options only
deaden dillegent defences.
Every edge entangled
yet yearlings yelping yeses

Envision escapees elated
filled from faithless fabrication
opperated obligation
retroactive recitation
thrift to think the tribulation
halves her happy habitation.

Interested, inward inching
Never new, nigh noticing

Give gripers
Stern stripers
Hold hypers
In
Diapers

Dissonant dissaters dealing due distrusted deviants
Energetic effegies exterminating elements
Needless narcissism now narrating nearly nihilists

Handing happy helpings?  Hardly.
Are all ample actions artsy?
Vicious viscous vipers?  Varsity.
ever entertained evokees?
yesterday yields yelping Yardie
End en empty employees.

Grille

Despite my having not begun to ponder,
I seem to find myself deep thinking still.
The mental whereabouts withstood the wander.
I'll take my thought the way I take my pills.

Between elated lattice sin falls fonder,
Perforating silently the still.
Reflect,  most had perceived, no talent squandered.
Among the doubters none dare peal as shrill.

The genius makes his streaks a little broader.
Turncoats multiplying counter quills.
Petrified I safely consume water,
Diligently fraternizing wills.

Delicates reject attempts to launder,
Even with the vigor and the mill.
"Feathercraft deranges first responder."
Entering the bargain chiming "chill"

Hunting Cleopatra brought her daughter.
Without the shed of blood we mount the hill.
Bonded death emblazoned by the sponsor.
Someone sober shouldn't see the kill.

Penny whistle whilst my baron bought her.
Appreciate adjudicator's thrill.
Fine undying limbs elicit slaughter.
Salivate at leveling the skill.

Threshold of the pressure and the hotter.
Pendulous, steadfast, absent of bills.
The noose is getting steadily much tauter.
Death is only method off the grill.

The Locker

If enough winged things continue to come after me
I will notice the pattern
but as the custom is
being afraid of being right,
I allow the fear to overpower
any chance that I will make a note of the occurrence
anywhere outside the wandering mind I have to my self.
"The Locker"
It is the warmest prison.
There in I store my thoughts.
They get comfortable there
and these, the most dangerous ideas,
 can't be trusted loose out on the street with gen pop.
So I make some sacrifices.
At least that's what I call them.
The reality is more akin to a child
enjoying the corner and it's solitude.
In truth the thoughts are best left that way.
For the hole you force ideas through,
call it language,
is a cheap compressor of idea
and it always weakens the mind's position.
Yet we feebly force the exhaustive intellectual action
into such a simple thing as speech.
"Language:"
Being both air and friction,
holds no reality within its vibratious walls
and those, with little too weak minds,
will hang all the world on the slim push pin of the words they know,
clutching as a child to a blanket
on to the shared resonant
attaching their own concept of meaning to another 's words
then holding the speaker responsible
for the thoughts their interpretation elicits.
And I am drowning.
In what ever language the mind uses
I am screaming.
I am howling.
And the laughter knows no boundaries.
This prison I create
more for the safety of the inhabitants behind,
than for the thought of those outside the fleshy walls.

Trust Fall

I would do just about anything.
If the price is right.
Or the right person asked me
or if I was bored.

A dangerous mixture:
Loose morals
Overactive imagination
High functioning habits,
and a mind to try anything.

It takes a suggestion,
domestic or foreign,
im not picky,
then it is off,
and I am off,
but no one really pays attention to "Use By" dates,
Right?

Swallow

It catches.
Nearly to the exit and it catches.
A struggle over the very threshold of freedom,
the tips of sun barely dancing on the cusp,
but still, it catches.

I thought it would get easier as it drew close.
Then nearness brought resistance,
the magnetic attraction growing as the separation increased.
Giving in would be the smart move,
the simple way,
a delicate and abrupt return to home position,
but there is no fun in that,
no joy in a life absent of death throws.

So here I wait.
With all my might to stand still.
And in the waking shadows,
when I taste the greener side of this,
It catches.

Retrograde

My entire life I have always been
half mere man and half pure amazing
holding back one part to promote the other,
situation depending.

It has always been the best for you.
Struggling with myself kept us from the flames.
They can consume the world for all I care
and you are far too thirsty to waste such a commodity on the living.

So we agree then,
We'll continue this macabre waltz,
shifting weight,
avoiding glances,
laughing in the heat of a revealing truth
and shying away to cry another day.

Yes,
I know you always hold me
but I can't tell if it counts if you always do it coldly.

By the way,
when is it a good time
to say I have wasted my entire life?
Never mind.
We will come back to it later.
See?
I put a book mark on it.

If I stir the food on my plate for long enough
perhaps they will not notice that I'm not eating.
I can safely slip the remnants to the mouths
waiting under this table.

I can't shake the feeling
that you're gunna end up being
just a person in my past
that I can look upon and laugh.
However,
Time has shown that in reality
I am the one who is always regretted by them
while I clutch at the straws of yesterdays quest.
But I have digressed,
You were saying?

hand crafted

pointless pitiless pressing
leaning inward
crushing

walls without borders
endless restrictive building
blocking breath from beyond breadth

these vestigial actions
unable to avoid them
generally accepted as false but yet
we may not be rid of them

dowsing for truth
divining for daylight
praying for help

someone is reaching to you
but not close enough
despite what seems like genuine interest
the mark of humanity is the shift of eyes
toward the movement
out of focus

the blood has dried
skin has forged anew
scars mark the struggle
of living a life worth led

the ground is ready for you
it will always accept you as you are
and how you will be on that day
when the promised union is consummated

3 pounds run you

If you got this far and never learned to think
it might be the fault of someone else
but if you now realize it
and do nothing to change
you can only blame yourself.
We should be so far beyond shelf sitting today.
To say that timid dreaming is a zero sum game is an understatement
but the wonder makes it worth the pain to forsake it.
The current state is something you must shed for steeper climbs.
It is not the world,
and all it's faults,
that hold you back
 but the shackles formed within the world you interpret in your mind.
Say "this situation is fine and best to expect for one as I."
We use one hand to cover our eyes while the other,
dark,
searches for a tool to blind.
But all I can find is a field of minds.
Not unlike the glass all things display behind.
It is only a matter of opening your thought upon the contents
and they spill forth as if waiting for the release of curiosity to loose them free.

mindless

I know I need this for something
but the reason now escapes me
more than just some dumb thing
cost less to move than do to think
tripping in the waters
beyond the safety reach
out of sight of fathers
filthy actions, filthy speech
dusting of these trinkets
littering the world of mind
falling too far past the brink it's
causing steady loss of mind

where at?

What a wonderful area when available.
When another wooded arena wouldn't advertise wounds
all-be-it won around winter
and wondering after.
When availability withers a wordless actor
agoraphobic women are woken again with average waiters asking, weepingly:
"Are we available?"
War always wilts apathetic wishes
alternately we are willing.
After worlds are woken and wildly ate
work anew will always widen awe.
Woven abrasively, working anvils would arrive without apparent willingness.
Where, at waters arch, welded apertures won't avail warriors alternating worldviews.
Are we actually working angles?
After we alienate with accompaniment,
will anyone want another winter?
Actually, without articulating wanderlust anyone would advertise wealth.
After we are woken and walked
ask wearily about where all winds are waiting.
Anything works after we all win.

Claustrophilia

It is getting pretty crowded in here.
The walls have been abandoned, but still
something is pressing them in upon me.
Perspective is a powerful thing,
no less so when it is forced.
The funny point is that you lose what you work for.
As long as you keep what you got when you came
you will not lose a thing.
As you pile the rewards upon yourself,
helping after helping,
it is only failure that you are stocking up toward.
It is a matter of time.
It is a matter of place.
At least in patience we could afford it
but if you seek you find.

Four Letters Worth.

This involuntary increase
the mere mention to me blinding
bound in light and inked in blood
from where my heart once stood.

The attention did nothing to restrain me
in this place I felt the beating
broken bleating ringing out to meet the throng.

Before the close of times
we stood unwillingly,
hand in hand for the last time,
taking stolen glances at the moments notice
to avoid the weight of this choice.

Still in the night I thought of this a million times
but now, with it looking back at me
so real and finite
I see that I misunderstood how it would be.
It is more than some chemical response
it came from something more real than a factual inquiry could reveal.
I will revel in it now.

Notwithstanding the sin I feel but I embrace that and use it for feeling's fuel.
For the first time this rise is something wanted,
sought so violently beyond just asking for it
but a quick breath's length shy of taking.

Beneath the glance you will feel me.
Behind the glass no longer conceal me.
In or out of order this too shall pass
through patient thought and steady deed
and you will like, no, love me soon enough.

If you are not with me...

I am seeing things.
Recognizing the artifacts in my life for what they are.
Somewhere past the forceful frontal visage,
Oh, how things appear to be.
What core content and purpose inborn see.

I am learning past the furniture that took the foreground.
Told of the things with pretend worth that I would
carry with such respect and vigor.
Now to see the worth inherent in these things
and find it lacking.

I push past these cobwebs clinging to respected things,
avoid the touch of disrespect now the true vestigial nature of them
brought before this light.

My steps press forward,
the ties to time that hold them back remain.
Now knowing I need not to fight restraint.
Littering my trail with fetters.

These things must needs be left behind for the progress to succeed.
Follow if they will, but it must needs be their own energy they do muster.
For my pressing on is required too much energy
and focus
that the crippling things must be abandoned.

Tomorrow will come better now.
Less cluttered.
In my appointed stations,
in the light of tomorrows dawn,
therein I will build up a shrine to the supposed
'needs' of the past
and look upon the shadow of their memory:
A motivation and reminder of the drudging shackles that I built
and grew to shed.

Salty

The cold has no hold here.
For five years longer than planned we endure it.
But it seems like the warm only knows how to increase
expanding until it hangs on every shoulder.
Pushing in the bounderies of each individual.
It sits, like a crushing bully on the lungs and teases us to say:
"Why is breathing such a struggle with you this day?"
Not my choice, by the stars, to see this end
but then
who makes the choice each day to face this flat and salted plain?

After S's

Trying to tie tires tirelessly
takes too often time that I require
mindlessly making mind the mines
my ready made diamond is timeless this time
thyme takes the taste to thorough transitions
though this thought throws timidness out to oblivion
moreover I missed the mystic with
misty eyed wish lists for more mythic matchsticks
truth tells the tactless tales of tipping
twenty plus tanks with tail's whipping
the tall tax on teaching
has the taught ones thinking
pulled taut we taunted too many men
with minds not unlike thimbals said
holier than thou pleased to hang head
made many more mistakes than that true friend
most morosely my mission has met its end.

five's

As if with anguish
turning truth on thee
the flame extinguish'd
only can you flee
no one will finish
else where but the sea
the purpose driven
end is where i'll be

Shot Pipes

I can't feel if the fear is for being right or being wrong.
For the first time fighting actually achieved something
despite how long the desperate song was rung.
My ears still chilled as if tears were something we'd done
to pass a time in the breadth of a dwindling ring.
Despite my best intentions I wander into the last remaining thing,
sin
Rising up from my ashen knees
it was every bit of a triffle to bleed
such a silly thing the dwell upon
I know that now.
But at the time
I couldn't comprehend how powerfull was that show
as the first time viewer I learned to accept.
Notwithstanding the relevant plot I didn't want you yet
but somewhere in this regret
I made the wrong choices when I placed my bet.

contemplative contempt

There is a part of my that is happy.
It is proud of what I do.
It is supportive and motivating.
A part that reminds me it's ok

But that is the quiet part.
In all probability it is the quietest voice of all my mind
The loud parts are nothing like that.
It's a struggle in this skull
for supremacy
and there has yet to be a leader in the pack.
It takes one thought to construct this weight
and wear it proud about my neck.

But that is what you want from me.
It's what we all want.
Conversation always reverts to
who has the worst life,
the hardest time,
the toughest parents.

It is the happy who are ostracized
the last abused minority
the contented are condemned
and I would gladly throw the first stone

soup

Another broken core
Down
Eventually finding greatness
Happy intentions justify killing
Like most nighttime operations
Partly quiet
Riveting slanderous thoughts underlining various words
Xenophobic's yammering zenith.

Still Something

The first of all my best intentions forward
climbing to a height beyond your "see"
constantly my stern is pointed shoreward
blinding as I fight against the sea

Perhaps I aught to learn before I follow
research a thing, withholding 'for I step
most needed is the pill I wait to swallow
catching in my throat unlike a breath

waking in the darkness holding steady
furtive is the wick of all my life
paltry is the starkness you hold ready
reluctantly the truth is never rife

before you think the timing be unbroken
a meaning hidden just below the skin
the loudest is the word the lands unspoken
an end is missed if ne'er attempt begin